


Meant To Say Always

by HobbitFeels



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ableist Language, His Last Vow, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Semi Fix-It for His Last Vow, Sherlock series 3, pre-season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-14 12:27:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1266544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HobbitFeels/pseuds/HobbitFeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief, alternate imagining of the end of "His Last Vow" with a <i>tiny</i> touch more romance...and a hint why a Johnlock confession scene at the end would have proven to be a bit awkward once Moftiss decided to turn that plane around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Reading meta has helped me be less wounded by the original goodbye scene than I was the first few times I saw it, but part of me still wanted some Johnlock that wasn't pure subtext. I've loved reading everyone's re-workings of the goodbye scene. Here's a short one from me.

"John, there’s something I should say, I’ve meant to say always and I never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now."

Sherlock observed John set his face like he had dozens of times before. John was clearly preparing himself. Sherlock thought he was ready, having practiced this moment all the way to the plane, but he felt emotions swirl within him that he could not seem to settle. He needed to focus, but John was rattling him without saying a word. Sherlock thought this was his opportunity to finally admit how he felt and make the deathbed confession he did not make last time. True, this was not yet his deathbed but it was close enough--John would not be there to see this seemingly inevitable fall later on. John still looked at him, steeled and ready. 

"Actually, I'm finding it difficult to say even still," Sherlock admitted. 

John rolled his lips inward but remained silent. Sherlock made an important deduction as he studied John's expression and body language.

He said, "You know already, don't you? My confession?"

John's eyes widened nearly imperceptibly before he looked down and away. His mouth was open in a smile familiar to Sherlock, one that frequently had little to do with mirth. John cleared his throat and looked back up at Sherlock, the smile closing tightly but curving back more genuinely. 

"Well, I'm less certain than I was a moment ago that this is an apology for all the body parts and spoiled milk," John quipped. 

The men laughed and the tension eased for the briefest moment before John gazed expectantly at Sherlock. 

Faced with what could be his final chance, Sherlock found he couldn't go through with it. At best it was unfair, leaving John with this confession and getting on a plane to oblivion. At worst, it might forever taint John's memory of him. He decided to joke instead.

"Sherlock is actually a girl's name."

Sherlock grinned. There it was! John's genuine, silent laugh and the specific, open-mouthed smile that marked both amusement and relief. Sherlock knew right away he had made the right decision.

John said, "It's not."  
"It was worth a try."  
"We're not naming our daughter after you," John insisted.  
Sherlock went along with the empty joke to get one last grin from John. "I think it could work."

Sherlock received a smile, but it was sad, wistful, perhaps even a bit pained. They stood there looking at each other. Anticipating their time would soon be up, Sherlock held out his hand. 

"To the very best of times, John."

John looked at the outstretched palm and grabbed it for a moment, gripping Sherlock more firmly than he remembered John's handshake being. John shook his head. 

"Come on, then," John said, pulling Sherlock into a hug. 

Sherlock could not help but return it. 

Quietly, only for Sherlock, John murmured, "I know...and you should know that I do, too."

Sherlock sucked in his breath and held John tighter. He thought the need to admit his feelings was only to ease his own burden. Sherlock had not dared hope John would counter with a confession of his own. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, frantically trying to catalog everything about this moment to replay during the dark times to come. It seemed as though this parting had gotten one hundred times worse...and one hundred times better. 

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, please. We have a schedule to keep."

Sherlock and John broke apart. Sherlock fleetingly wondered how long they had been standing and clinging to one another for Mycroft to feel the need to intervene. He looked at John and saw him--for the first time in a long time--open and unguarded. What he witnessed filled him with an odd comfort, as shocking as it was. Were he to die tomorrow, he could do so finally knowing what it was like to see unquestionable romantic love for him in John Watson's eyes. What a shame that it had to happen now.

Sherlock backed away, hoping his feelings read plainly for John to see as well. He fought back tears until the last moment, only allowing them to come when he had boarded the plane. He looked out the window at John and Mary holding hands on the tarmac, hoping Mycroft would honor his word to keep surveillance on them. Mary's game was far from over. 

Sherlock breathed in deeply, wiped his eyes, and felt an unexpected warmth bloom within him. No matter how bitter this parting, he now knew John loved him. More than a best friend, more than a best man...in another life, he could have simply been _John's_ man. It soothed him and would likely continue to soothe him through many trials in the future. 

Sherlock gazed back out the window and imagined best-case scenarios of what it would have been like if he and John had done this properly long, long ago. He was shaken from his reverie not long after.

"Sir? It's your brother."  
Taking the phone, Sherlock said, "Mycroft?"  
"Hello, little brother. How's the exile going?"  
"I've only been gone four minutes."  
"Well, I certainly hope you've learned your lesson. As it turns out, you're needed."

Sherlock knew he shouldn't have been surprised by this--he honestly had hoped Mycroft would find some way around the inevitable conclusion of this assignment--but after the emotional wringer he had just been through, "irritated" was not a strong enough word.

"For god's sake, make up your mind," Sherlock said. "Who needs me this time?"

There was an uncharacteristic pause on Mycroft's end and Sherlock thought he faintly heard something akin to a child's speaking toy, but he couldn't quite make it out over the engines.

"England."  
"Isn't England why I am on this plane in the first place?" Sherlock asked.  
"Oh, a matter of far greater importance has managed to arise."  
Sherlock retorted, "In the last five minutes?"  
"They are turning the plane around, Sherlock. I'll be picking you up for debriefing. I've taken the liberty of detaining Dr. Watson, too. I believe you will desire and require his help in this instance. I've requested a second car for Mrs. Watson, as she will not be joining you."

Mycroft hung up before Sherlock could get a word in edgewise. What manner of situation could have possibly warranted such a drastic change of plan? Obviously a matter of national security, but why him? Why John?

Oh dear god.

 _John_. 

What would they say to each other? Although John had admitted his feelings too, Sherlock could not help but be mortified. It was one thing to make heady confessions during a final farewell, but quite another to deal with the aftermath when the goodbye was only temporary. What was Sherlock going to do now? What would John do?

Suddenly, the assignment in Eastern Europe seemed almost appealing.


	2. John's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How John felt after Sherlock left

John stood next to Mary and watched Sherlock's plane grow smaller in the sky. He was shocked and sad. For years he had told himself Sherlock was incapable of love. He had been working especially overtime to convince himself of this since Sherlock's undeath, but he couldn't remain fooled when Sherlock shot Magnussen. Since then, he had been in a state of numbness as he looked back on his life decisions and realized he had made some very large missteps. 

Mary held his hand, occasionally rubbing her thumb over his knuckles. It made his skin crawl. Perhaps the stories of the things she had done as a child, the records she listened to in her teens, and the goofy friends she had as an adult were all true and simply told through her Mary persona. It could be that whomever she was really did love a certain shade of lilac and that she honestly found Simon Pegg movies ridiculously funny. Maybe she let him know true bits and pieces of her, but he would never be certain. He couldn't trust it. He would never know what was pretend and what was real with her. He didn't think she truly even loved him, or if she did, she did not love him as selflessly as Sherlock.

God, Sherlock. They finally managed to say (sort of) something meaningful about this, this _thing_ between them, and now he was on a plane. He didn't tell John exactly what this was all about, but he knew Sherlock did not expect to return. It didn't take a, well, a Sherlock Holmes to know this wasn't just Sherlock in exile. It was possible he just put the man he loved on a plane to--

No. _No_. He could not think of that. John did not need to stand here and weep for Sherlock. He would do it later, on his own, somewhere private. Possibly even at 221B. 

"That's not possible," Mycroft said, climbing out of the car. "That is simply not possible."

John released Mary's hand and approached Mycroft. "What's happened?"  
"Moriarty, that is what has happened. He's on every screen in the country."  
"Doing what?" John asked.  
Mycroft sighed. "Asking us if we have missed him."  
John cocked his head, pursed his lips, and pointed toward the sky. "You've got to call that plane back," he said forcefully.  
"Relax, John. I have no intention of addressing this without Sherlock. I've got some calls to make, if you'll excuse me," Mycroft said, climbing in his car again.

John turned to Mary who was looking at him in horror. 

"But he was dead. You told me he was dead. Moriarty," Mary said, growing agitated.  
"Absolutely. Blew his own brains out," John replied, a little agitated himself that Mary was angry that John hadn't personally killed the man dead enough.  
"So how can he be back?"  
John exhaled. "Well if he is, he better wrap up warm. There's an East wind coming."

John watched Sherlock's plane touch down. Whatever creeping chill he felt when Mycroft spoke Moriarty's name, whatever coldness he felt from Mary in her shock at the same, both were replaced with a giddy warmness he had no business feeling at a time like this. He had no idea what they were going to say to each other or how they were going to move forward from their mutual, roundabout confessions, but it didn't matter at the moment. In a handful of minutes, Sherlock Holmes was going to walk off that plane and back into his life. 

Another car pulled up behind Mycroft's and Mycroft climbed out of his car to greet the driver. 

"Timothy, I need you to take Mrs. Watson home," Mycroft said.  
Mary fixed Mycroft with an accusatory glance. "Just Mrs. Watson?"  
"Dr. Watson is needed in a matter of national security. I'm sure you understand my position," Mycroft said with his signature, tight-lipped smile.  
"Fuck your position!" Mary said. "Wherever John and Sherlock go, I go!"  
"Mary, please," John said.  
"Oh, I'm sure you just _love_ this," Mary said to John, face turning pink from both the wind and her rising fury.  
Mycroft's tone turned more stern. "I'm afraid this is not within your brief, Mrs. Watson."  
"I believe you, of all people, know exactly what my brief is," Mary said haughtily.  
"And therefore, you, of all people, understand why you are not allowed in this particular debriefing. Though Timothy is a driver, he is a government employee and quite capable of self-defense. He will be taking you home and you should know, both of you are being watched. If you wish for Baby Girl Watson to be born outside of a prison, you will find it within yourself to behave and to remain home until Dr. Watson meets you there. Am I making myself quite clear?"

John wondered for a moment how Mycroft knew the sex of their baby before realizing he was, well, _Mycroft_. 

Mary gave Mycroft a tight, simpering smile that only somewhat hid her rage. "Very clear, Mr. Holmes," she said. It sounded more like a threat than compliance.  
"I'll text you as soon as I can," John promised.  
Mary looked at John, suddenly wide-eyed and terrified. "John, do not leave me alone too long. I have good reason to be afraid of James Moriarty and I don't think that I--" she stopped to caress her swollen stomach and glanced back up sweetly, "that _we_ \--should be by ourselves."  
Mary glanced over at Mycroft furtively. "We aren't safe, John," she whispered.

Eight months ago, John would have been deeply and profoundly affected by Mary's plea. Although he could easily believe his child was in potential peril, Mary's face went from rage to frightened little mouse a little too quickly for this not to be an act...an act he had unfortunately seen more than once since Mary's past had been (somewhat) revealed. He and Sherlock would do all they could to protect Mary and the baby, regardless, but it grated on John that Mary was trying to play upon his sympathies so obviously. 

As Mary's car disappeared into the distance, the stairs to the plane were let down. Sherlock descended and stood still, staring at John and John alone. It was as though Mycroft was not there at all. Mycroft seemed to sense something, because he did not swoop right in on them. John nearly giggled, because the look on Sherlock's face when their eyes met was far more terrified than any fake fear Mary had tried to conjure for him a few minutes prior. 

Sherlock took a few steps toward John. John took a couple of his own. He did not remember closing the distance after that. The next thing he realized, his feet were off the ground and his nose was full of Sherlock's hair. 

"John," Sherlock whispered.  
"Don't be gone so long next time," John whispered back. 

Sherlock barked a laugh and held him more tightly. 

Mary, Mycroft, Moriarty--they were all looming over them, either literally or figuratively, but John could only think of how he had been given a last, impossible chance with Sherlock. 

John had no idea what sort of horrifying road was ahead of them, but he felt much better knowing they were going to face it like they always did: Sherlock Holmes and his blogger.


End file.
